


Voice Of My Dreams

by pensively



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Romance, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensively/pseuds/pensively
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur has trouble sleeping, Morgana gifts him with a relaxation CD. At first, Arthur finds that the smooth, hypnotic voice does the trick and he sleeps like a baby. But then one restless evening, Arthur realizes that the narrator's voice is also hot as hell and sexy as sin; wanking to the sound of that luscious voice has become his new guilty pleasure. </p><p>What will Arthur do when he is faced with the voice of his dreams...in the flesh?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Voice Of My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nightfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightfox/gifts).



> Giftfic for [Nightfox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightfox/pseuds/Nightfox). Hope you like it!
> 
> Many thanks to the fabulous [RocknVaughn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RocknVaughn/pseuds/RocknVaughn) for being a terrific beta, summary writer extraordinaire and Namer Of ALL THE THINGS.

The sun is warm and bright on Arthur's face when he wakes, and he blinks against the relentless light in sleepy confusion. His bedroom is usually darker than this in the morning, especially as early as he...

 "Fuck."

 Gwen actually snorts, and Arthur looks up at her blearily as she places a cup of coffee on the desk in front of him. He scrubs a hand over his face and runs it through his hair, wincing at the feel of it sticking up at odd angles. Gwen would never have lasted five years as his PA without being a consummate professional, but the sparkle of mirth in her dark eyes tells him he looks ridiculous.

 His tie is loose, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his shirt a wrinkled mess. The matching charcoal suit jacket rests on the floor in a crumpled heap. Arthur sighs.

 "The Godwin meeting -- my spare suit?"

 "You're wearing it. Arthur, when was the last time you slept at your flat?"

 The sparkle is gone, and Gwen is all kind concern as she nudges the steaming cup closer to him. The aroma of coffee signals impending caffeinated bliss, and for a moment the hot, bitter flavor overrides the sour taste in his mouth and makes him feel almost human.

 "I just can't sleep there, Gwen." Arthur knows he sounds tired, and he also knows that Uther will have his head if he doesn't pull himself together quickly.

 "This," and she waves her hand to indicate the messy pile of papers that served as his pillow last night, "is better than that posh flat of yours?"

 He eyes the documents, and attempts to surreptitiously cover a wet spot with his hand. Gwen isn't fooled. "At least I got some work done."

 She doesn't look satisfied, and in fact has the expression that always precedes a lecture on his workaholic tendencies. Arthur appreciates her concern, he really does -- Gwen is just as much friend as she is employee -- and any other time he would submit to her fussing. He admits that staying up half the night working and falling asleep at his desk isn't the best thing to do. But this time, when the clock on the wall reads half eight and Barrett Godwin will be in at ten, he simply can't.

 "Gwen, I'm sorry. I know you're concerned and I appreciate that, but if I don't get ready immediately it will just make things worse."

 Gwen compresses her lips and nods unhappily. "There isn't enough time for me to make it to your flat and back, but I can run out and buy something suitable."

 "That will work," he replies gratefully as he reaches for his wallet and extracts a credit card.

“And in return, I'll take you to lunch when I get back."

 This elicits a real smile from Gwen, and she pauses to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder before turning toward the office door. "You're good to your friends, Arthur. Why don't you try doing the same for yourself?"

 

***

 

Thanks to Gwen's speed-shopping and a visit to the executive washroom, Arthur is able to make the meeting on time and without looking like he spent the night at his desk. Uther doesn't look especially pleased with him, but that's typical and today Arthur doesn't have the energy to care.

 He makes it back to his office just after noon, and Gwen looks up from her monitor with a smile.

 "How did it go?"

 "Godwin is still being unreasonable, but perhaps by fewer degrees than he was before. If we're any closer to a deal than we were, it's not by much."

 She nods and tabs back to his calendar. "You're meeting with him again next week?"

 He leans against the edge of her desk, careful not to knock over the photograph of her at some tropical destination, smiling happily at the camera with flowers in her hair and Lance's arm around her shoulders.

 "Yes, and we're going to have to make some real progress if we're to avoid having this thing blow up in our faces." He stands straight and shoves his hands in his pockets, putting on a smile he doesn't really feel. "But enough about Godwin for the moment. Where are we going for lunch?"

 "I don't suppose I can convince you to take the afternoon off to get some rest, can I?"

 Smiling ruefully, he shakes his head. "I'm afraid not. If you don't hurry up and choose, it'll be kebabs again." This time his smile is genuine, and Gwen gives him a long-suffering look as she stands and grabs her purse and jacket.

 "No more of your dodgy kebab stands, Arthur."

 

***

 

After lunch, Arthur is due in Uther's office for what his calendar says is a "debrief", but will in reality be an opportunity for his father to expound at length (and in great detail) on all of Arthur's faults. Usually Arthur leaves these meetings angry enough to spur several hours of productivity -- which might just be Uther's true objective -- but today he is just tired.

Gwen isn't at her desk when he returns to his office, and he slumps into his chair with a glare at the computer he has barely touched today. He'll have a mountain of emails to catch up on, reports to read, and he needs to review the quarterly sales figures in advance of tomorrow's board meeting.

  He's about to settle in for an evening of work when there is a sharp knock at the door. It flies open before he has a chance to say "Enter", and Morgana strides in briskly and comes to a stop in front of his desk, fixing him with an unimpressed look.

 "Gwen told me you've been sleeping at your desk again," she says without preamble. "Arthur, no one works as hard as you do. When was the last time you worked fewer than eighty hours in a week?"

 As soon as he opens his mouth to reply, she holds up her hand. "No, don't answer that. It doesn't matter how hard you work, Uther will _never_ be satisfied. You've got to stop killing yourself trying to live up to his impossible expectations."

 "Morgana, I…"

 "No excuses." Morgana comes around to his side of the desk and perches there, her sharp-toed shoes dangerously close to Arthur's shins. He takes the point. "I already know what you'll say. ‘Father built this company from nothing' and 'I'll be taking over when he retires and I'll be responsible for all the employees,' and 'he's only doing what's best for the company'. It's a load of bollocks and you know it."

 Arthur fights the urge to smirk; his sister, with her pristine designer suit, artfully arranged hair and understated makeup, just said "bollocks". Everyone thinks she is a paragon of refinement, and not many know that she can swear like a sailor when she chooses.

 "Now can I speak?" He asks with a carefully neutral expression.

 "Not yet. Here." She holds out a small bag for him to take, one eyebrow arched imperiously.

 Inside he finds a CD case. The cover is a picture of a beach at sunset, and in white script is the title "Guided Meditation for Sleep".

 "You can't be serious."

 "Do I look like I'm joking?"

 Privately, he thinks she looks just slightly terrifying, but he wouldn't admit that on pain of death.

 "Now, I expect you to finish only whatever is absolutely critical and leave here no later than 7. You are to go straight home and be in bed listening to this by 9."

 "And if I don't?"

 "Do you remember George?"

 Unfortunately, Arthur _does_ remember George. He hardly ever has time to go out anymore, but Morgana would never have forgiven him if he’d missed Leon's stag night, and that was how he had found himself cornered at the King's Head by a man with an unfortunate haircut and fawning manner that made him feel slightly ill. It had taken the combined efforts of Gwaine, Percival and Leon to extricate him from that situation.

 Because Leon apparently told Morgana _everything,_ and Gwaine (the bastard) had taken a picture of Arthur leaning away from George in obvious discomfort, not only did his sister know exactly what had happened, she also knew what George looked like. A month later she had casually mentioned that she’d spotted the little pissant at her health club, and Arthur had found himself unsure as to whether or not it was really a coincidence.

 Arthur's eyes narrow. "No, you wouldn't. You couldn't possibly be that evil."

 "Oh, dear brother. You know that I am." She pats his cheek and gives him a smile that she would describe as fond and he would call scary, and saunters out of his office without a backward look.

 

***

 

Hours later, Arthur lets himself into his cool, dark flat and drops his keys in the bowl on the console table behind the sofa. It is closer to eleven than nine, but unless Morgana has paid off his doorman (and isn't that a scary thought) she should be none-the-wiser and he'll be in no danger of having his personal mobile number given to a certain person he'd like to avoid.

 He showers, brushes his teeth, and dresses in a pair of soft cotton sleep pants before going into his bedroom and turning down the bed. The cleaning service must have been by since the last time he slept here, because he doesn't recall making up the bed...whenever that was. Just as his head hits the pillow, Arthur remembers the CD he’d put down with the keys, and tries to decide if he wants to go get it or not.

 Jokes about Morgana's inexplicable ability to know things she has no business knowing aside, Arthur would really like a decent night's sleep -- something that hasn't happened since his father put him in charge of negotiating the Godwin merger -- and while he doesn't put much faith in things like meditation it can't possibly make the situation any worse. With a groan, he gets up and retrieves the CD, only to realize that he doesn't actually own a CD player. He almost gives up on the idea entirely, but with a sigh he retrieves his laptop, quickly rips the CD and loads the contents onto his iPhone.

 Back in bed, he places the earbuds in his ears, selects "Guided Meditation for Sleep" and taps "play" on the touchscreen.

 Soft music layered with ocean sounds fills his ears, and a voice begins to speak.

  _Find a quiet and warm place and make sure you cannot be disturbed._

  _Lie on a bed or a soft pad on your back in a very comfortable position so you can let yourself go completely._

  _Close your eyes, and breathe easily in and out._

  _Feel the gentle rhythm of your breath._

 Arthur isn't sure what he was expecting -- maybe a breathy female voice trying to sound mystical and wise, but it wasn't this. The voice is male, for one thing, and it is deep and rich, with a hint of an accent Arthur can't quite place.

  _Every time you breathe out, you become more and more relaxed._

  _All of your tension is flowing out of your body._

  _Thoughts are coming and going. They are without any meaning, and are drifting past._

  _You only hear the music and my voice._

 The music is insipid, and the gentle susurrus of the waves is not much better -- pleasant enough, but somehow artificial sounding. The man's voice, though, seems to seep into him like warm honey, soothing away his stress with every beautifully spoken word.

  _You are completely quiet and relaxed._

  _Your arms and legs are heavy. Very heavy._

  _Your body is pleasantly warm. You are breathing quietly and steadily._

 Despite himself, Arthur begins to feel relaxed. His eyelids grow heavy, and at last he sleeps.

 

***

 

The alarm blares at five AM, and Arthur barely resists the urge to hit the snooze button and bury his face in his pillow once more. He can't remember the last time he had such a restful night, and as he disentangles himself from the earbuds, he imagines just how insufferable Morgana will be if she finds out just how well the CD had actually worked.

 He is positively cheerful as he gets ready to go to the office, and even finds that he has time to stop for coffee. He makes sure to pick up a chai tea latte for Gwen, and if the surprised expression on her face when he hands it to her is anything to go by, he must look much better.

 She opens her mouth, but any comment she would have made is cut off by Uther’s arrival. He is perfectly pressed as always, and his expression is stern as he stares appraisingly at Arthur.

 “Just getting in, Arthur?”

 “Father. Good morning. Yes, I’ve just arrived.” Arthur maintains a calm demeanor, but he sags a little internally. It’s barely half seven and Arthur is here well ahead of his first meeting of the day. A tiny, rebellious voice inside him observes that there is no rational reason for Uther to be displeased with him, but Arthur resolutely ignores it.

 “I pay an exorbitant sum of money each month for a coffee service to keep the building adequately supplied. Surely it would be a better use of your time for you to have your assistant,” and with this, Uther fixes Gwen with a cold glare, “obtain coffee for you when you arrive, if you require it.” His tone somehow implies that only a lesser man would depend on caffeine as opposed to running on sheer willpower and determination.

 Arthur feels his cheeks heat with anger, not for himself, but on Gwen’s behalf. She can say nothing in the face of Uther’s disapproval; not if she wants to keep her job, but he can. (And should, he thinks -- but it seems he cannot find the words as Uther regards him with steely eyes and a stern expression.) Behind his back, he clenches and unclenches his fist, then gestures toward his office.

 “I assume you’d like to review the sales figures prior to the board meeting, Father? I have everything ready.”

 Uther grunts his assent and charges past him into his office.

 It’s going to be a long day, Arthur thinks.

 

***

 

That evening, Arthur unlocks the door to his flat just after eight with a carrier bag of curry in one hand. He doesn’t bother with a plate, opting to stand at his kitchen island with a fork and open beer, eating and drinking methodically. It had taken a huge amount of effort to escape the office by seven, but it would be worth it if he could manage another night of sleep as restful as the one he’d had the night before.

 His dinner finished, he clears away the trash before going into his spare room to put in a half hour on the rowing machine. As he settles into the rhythmic push-pull motion, he finds his thoughts turning to the voice on the meditation CD once more. He’d selected a playlist of classic rock to accompany his exercise, but now he thumbs through the Music app on his phone and pays attention to the smaller text beneath the title of the track, which reads “M. Emrys.”

 Is this M. Emrys the owner of the gorgeous voice that filled his ears and sent him to sleep last night, he wonders? What might he look like -- tall or short, light-haired or dark, with a slight build or a muscular one? It’s impossible to know, but Arthur imagines a tall, dark-haired man with fair skin and dark eyes of some indeterminable shade. If the M. Emrys in his mind just happens to bear a close resemblance to Arthur’s ideal type, well that’s merely a coincidence and Arthur will never admit to it.

 Arthur shakes his head. This line of thought isn’t going anywhere, and he has a workout to finish. He begins rowing with greater vigor, intending to tire himself out if he can, and finally stops thirty minutes later with damp hair and the sheen of sweat on his skin.

 A lukewarm shower feels pleasant against his heated skin, and after towelling his hair dry briskly, cleaning his teeth, and pulling on his sleep pants, he wanders out to the living area to pick up the jewel case from its spot on the console table. He opens it and pulls out the liner notes, half-hoping for a picture of the mysterious M. Emrys, and is disappointed to find only the details for the production company and music credits. He tells himself he doesn’t feel disappointed, and goes to bed.

 With the earbuds once more resting in his ears and the duvet pulled halfway up his bare chest, Arthur scrolls to the Guided Meditation for Sleep and taps the play button. This time he tunes out the elevator music and computer-generated waves and simply focuses on the voice. He pays no attention to the words, and in fact substitutes his own. Suddenly, M. Emrys is no longer instructing him to breathe in and out and let his tension melt away; he is murmuring words of love into Arthur’s ear with that velvet voice. Meditation is forgotten as he calls to mind his mental image of Emrys, and Arthur is instantly harder than he’s been in recent memory.

His cock strains against the soft fabric of his pants, the tip already weeping into the thin cloth, dampening it. He flips back the duvet and shoves the waistband of his pants down, exposing his cock to the chilly air of his bedroom. He slides his hand down, letting his palm smear precome down the underside of the shaft before wrapping his fingers around the base and pulling back up. It's too dry, but the friction sends a frisson of pleasure through his cock. With his free hand, he reaches for the bottle of lube he keeps in the top drawer of his nightstand, and he drizzles it slowly down his length, shivering when the cool liquid hits his heated flesh.

 Arthur's hand moves up and down in slow, languorous strokes, spreading the slick around until every pass of his palm is a smooth glide. He bucks his hips, imagining that it is not his hand that he's fucking, but Emrys'. Maybe later he'll feel pathetic for attaching so much significance to this fantasy person he's constructed to go along with that glorious voice...but right now his fantasy Emrys is jacking him with a firm, sure grip whilst that amazing voice pours forth like a river of sin.

 Emrys' face is shadowed and unclear, but Arthur envisions a lean body pressing against his, slim, lightly-haired thighs bracketing his hips, heels bumping against the small of his back. His cock presses into a tight, slick hole and pale hands with long, slim fingers grip his arse and pull him deeper.

 "Arthur," his fantasy lover gasps. "…love your cock inside me. Fuck me harder, harder!"

 Arthur shudders. His hand is flying over his cock now. His balls are tight, his skin flushed with heat and slick with sweat. Heat coils low in his belly and he is close, so close.

 "…want your come in me, come on, give it to me…fill me up with your come..."

 Arthur comes undone, his orgasm so intense it skirts the line between pleasure and pain. He shudders with the aftershocks, panting against his pillow, matting his hair to his sweaty forehead. His cock softens slowly, twitching and sensitized to the point of discomfort.

 He gets up on shaky legs to retrieve a wet cloth with which to clean himself, straightens his pants, and slips back under the duvet. He falls asleep almost the moment his head hits the pillow.

 

***

 

The next morning, Arthur stares at the discarded earbuds with mild embarrassment. He’d slept even better than he had the first night, and while he doesn’t tend to remember his dreams very often, this morning he is all too aware that they were vivid, pornographic, and all about his fantasy Emrys. Despite feeling just a little bit pathetic, for the most part he feels better than he has in months and he decides to just go with it.

 It’s amazing to Arthur how much better he feels after a good night’s rest. Hot showers are more pleasurable; his food tastes better, traffic is less troublesome, and even his father’s constant harping on his apparently unlimited shortcomings seems to roll off his back. He stops working twelve to fourteen hour days, preferring to get home early enough to eat dinner, exercise and go to bed at a reasonable time. Every night, Emrys’ voice brings him to completion and soothes him to sleep afterwards. He smiles more frequently, laughs more easily, and he’s fairly certain Gwen suspects that he’s been abducted by aliens and replaced by a pod person. For her part, Morgana is just smug.

 It turns out that reducing his stress and getting decent rest each night is the key to solving his Barrett Godwin problem, and when the merger deal is finally reached, even Uther is hard-pressed to complain despite his best efforts to the contrary. The quality of his work is such that, although he knows that Uther hates the fact that he is no longer practically living at the office and pulling regular all-nighters, his father has no ground on which to stand to object. If he is honest with himself, Arthur is still lonely, but he thinks he’s closer to happy than he has been in a long time.

 While Gwen is happy that he has reduced his hours and is no longer sleeping at the office, he knows she worries about his lack of social life, and has in fact been dropping hints to that effect for weeks, ever since he started leaving the office by seven each day. In light of this, it comes as no surprise when she taps on his office door late one Friday afternoon. Unlike Morgana, she waits for him to say “come in”, and she sits down in one of the chairs in front of his desk, crossing her ankles and folding her hands in her lap primly. She has a determined look in her eyes, and Arthur knows he’s in for it.

 “What do you have planned for tonight, Arthur?”

 He knows what’s coming – or at least he thinks he does – and he places his pen down and leans back in his chair before replying. “Nothing in particular. Why?”

 As far as he knows, only Morgana is aware that he’s been using the CD, and there’s no way she can know that he’s not… _exactly_ using it as intended. He’s not about to tell Gwen that his only real plan is to have an orgasm and fall asleep with Emrys’ voice in his ears.

 “Then you’ll come out with us and have a drink at the pub, won’t you?” She asks. For all that her tone is light, her jaw is set and he knows she won’t take “no” for an answer.

 “What’s the occasion?” He twirls his pen between his fingers idly, wondering if he accepts -- and who is he kidding, he’s going if Gwen has to drag him herself -- if he’ll even attempt to pull someone. He’s not sure anyone can live up to the fantasy in his head at this point.

 “My flatmate defended his dissertation today. We’re celebrating.”

 His brow wrinkles with confusion. “When did you get a flatmate? What about Lance?”

 “Maybe six months ago? Lance left his job at the school to focus on painting full time, and we needed the extra income. Plus Merlin has been living in this terrible flat ever since he moved here from Belfast to do his PhD, and this way he was able to finish his dissertation in peace. I thought I told you about this.” She frowns slightly.

 “If you did, I’m afraid I don’t remember. Six months ago would have been right around when this whole business with Godwin started, and you know how that’s been.” Arthur smiles apologetically, and her expression softens.

 “That’s true, I do. And that’s all the more reason for you to come out with us! Now that things have calmed down, you can start having a social life again...maybe meet someone.”

 “I don’t know, Gwen. I haven’t gone out in a long time and I’m not sure I want-”

 “Arthur. This is not optional.” She says sternly. “It’s just a small gathering of friends at the King’s Head,” and Arthur blanches at this, because he _really_ doesn’t want to run into George again. “And before you say anything about George, Morgana assured me that it won’t be a problem.”

 And really, Arthur isn’t going to touch that one. At all.

 “So you have no excuses.”

 “I see that I don’t.”

 

***

 

The King’s Head hasn’t changed appreciably since the last time Arthur was there, and he can’t help but glance around surreptitiously as he follows Gwen to a booth in the corner. Everyone else is already there, and he recognizes most of them, save a dark-haired bloke seated between Gwaine and Lance, chatting amiably with both of them. His head is turned away from Arthur, and in profile his sharp cheekbones stand out in relief against his fair skin. He has dimples, and just the barest hint of a shadow on his sharp jaw. His dark hair is tousled and messy, curling just slightly around his ears and the nape of his neck. Arthur has been so focused on him that he doesn’t notice Gwen greeting everyone and tugging him forward to introduce him. The man -- Merlin, he remembers -- turns to face him, and Arthur sees his deep blue eyes and brilliant smile. He couldn’t be any more Arthur’s type if he’d been made specifically for him, and for a moment Arthur forgets to breathe.

 It feels like an eternity but couldn’t have been more than a second or two, since no one seems to have noticed him staring, and abruptly he catches the tail end of what Gwen is saying.

 “...my boss, Arthur Pendragon. Arthur, this is my flatmate Merlin Emrys.”

 At first the name doesn’t register, because Arthur is drowning in Merlin’s sapphire blue eyes as he holds out his hand to shake. Merlin is smiling at him. His hand is warm and dry, his grip firm but not excessively so. He speaks.

 “Nice to meet you, Arthur.”

 Arthur would know that voice anywhere. He knows it as intimately as he knows his own, perhaps more so. For an instant, Arthur’s entire world narrows down to three important facts.

 First, that as impossible as it may seem, Merlin’s voice sounds even better in person; second, that his accent is more pronounced, and Arthur had never before considered that an Irish brogue could be so appealing; third, that Arthur is well and completely fucked. (And not in a good way.)

 Somehow he manages to give an appropriate response, or at least he assumes he does, since no one gives him the side-eye. What it was, he couldn’t say, but he knows he needs to escape the table and get himself together before he makes a complete ass of himself.

 “I’ll get the next round, yeah?”

 Before anyone can answer, he turns away from the booth and makes his way to the bar. While he waits, he thinks about how he’s going to get himself out of this situation. He’ll take the drinks back to the table, congratulate Merlin, and stay just long enough not to seem rude. Then he’ll take his leave, and never agree to go out with Gwen ever again. It seems simple enough.

 Of course, things never go to plan.

 “Arthur?”

 The voice at his elbow is Merlin’s. Of course it’s Merlin’s. Arthur pastes on a smile and turns around.

 “Yes, Merlin?”

 Arthur’s attempt to sound like he isn’t having a minor episode ends up coming out as a mildly insolent drawl, but there isn’t much he can do about that.

 “I thought you might need some help carrying the drinks back.” If he’s offended by Arthur’s tone he doesn’t show it, but he does lean closer and look at him curiously. “Arthur, I’m not sure how this is possible since we literally just met, but have I done something to offend you?”

 Arthur knows he’s been acting strangely ever since he realized that Merlin is his voice, and he thinks the smart thing to do would be to give a polite answer and extricate himself from this debacle. But Merlin is here, he's real, and he's even more gorgeous than Arthur imagined.

 "No, not at all. It's just…I was caught off guard, I think. You remind me of someone."

 "Oh, I do?" Merlin leans in a little more, and he's wearing this cheeky little grin. "Not someone you dislike, I hope?"

 Arthur's heart skips a beat. Is Merlin…is Merlin _flirting_ with him? He decides to go for it.

 "Just the opposite, in fact."

 And yes, Merlin is definitely flirting because his smile widens and he moves a little closer. Close enough that when he speaks again, his voice seems to go directly into Arthur's ear.

 Arthur suppresses a shiver.

 "Should I be jealous of this person?"

 "No, I think you have the advantage."

 It’s true. Fantasy Emrys has nothing on Actual Merlin.

 

***

 

In the week since Arthur met Merlin at the King's Head, they've met for coffee twice, lunch once, and they've exchanged enough text messages to prompt Arthur to add unlimited text messaging to his mobile plan.

 Arthur hasn't listened to "Guided Meditation for Sleep" at all.

It's Friday again, and Arthur is finally taking Merlin for a "proper date". In fact, it's been so long since Arthur went out at all that he finds himself asking Gwen to recommend a restaurant. He does it under the guise of asking her to make a reservation for him, but they both know the score and she doesn't tease him about it.

 Much.

 Seven PM rolls around, and Arthur finds himself parking in front of Gwen's building. It's not like him to admit that he's nervous, but he's never connected with someone the way he has with Merlin, never felt about anyone the way he feels about Merlin, and while he can't know for sure he suspects Merlin may feel the same.

 They've known each other for a week and maybe it's too soon to feel this way, but Arthur can't help himself.

 Merlin answers the door in dark wash jeans and a black button-down with the collar open at the neck. At that moment, Arthur wants nothing more than to nuzzle into the hollow of Merlin's throat before kissing his way up to those perfect lips.

 There's something about the intensity in Merlin's gaze that suggests he might not be opposed to that course of action, but Lance emerges from the kitchen with a wide smile before Arthur can do more than step into the flat.

 "Arthur! I hardly know what to think, seeing you twice in a week's time."

 "Be careful Lance, you'll have Merlin thinking I don't have a life outside the office."

 "Too late," Merlin says with a cheeky grin. "But at least you're making progress."

 Merlin leans into Arthur's side and murmurs in his ear, "Quick, let's go before Gwen comes out and tries to take our photo or something. She's entirely too excited about this. You'd think she was the one going on a date with a gorgeous blond."

 The sound of Merlin's voice in his ear goes straight to Arthur's groin, and the jeans and henley he's wearing will do nothing to disguise it.

 With a muttered goodbye to Lance, he takes Merlin's elbow and steers him out the door, taking care to keep Merlin in front of him while he wills his body to behave. By the time they are seated in his car he's gotten himself under control -- barely -- and then they are on their way to the restaurant.

 

***

 

The tapas plates have been cleared away, the check paid, and Arthur is draining the last mouthful of wine from his glass when Merlin looks up at him with an almost shy expression on his face. His cheeks are dusted with the faintest blush from the wine, but his voice is clear and warm when he says, "Do you want to get out of here?"

 Arthur swallows and says fervently, "There's nothing I want more."

 The drive back to his flat is silent, but in an anticipatory way, as though they are so focused on their desire for one another that conversation is meaningless.

 Arthur is certain that the lift in his building has never moved so slowly. As a heady thrill threads through his veins, Arthur realizes he’s already half-hard with anticipation. The only thing that is preventing him from pinning Merlin to the wood-paneled wall and kissing him senseless is his knowledge of that tiny camera mounted discreetly in the overhead panel. Arthur has no desire to give the security guard a thrill…and besides, he feels that the sight of Merlin pleased and aroused should belong to him alone.

 At last the door to Arthur’s flat is closed behind them, and Merlin crowds close, splaying his hands across Arthur’s chest. He presses gently, and Arthur feels his back hit the wall an instant before Merlin’s lips are on his. For a long moment, their lips move together softly, touching and parting, and touching again. Merlin’s hands move up, one warm palm cupping the nape of Arthur’s neck while the fingers of his other hand tangle in his hair. Arthur angles his head, parting Merlin’s lips with his own. He nips Merlin’s plush lower lip before sealing their mouths again, their tongues sliding together naturally as if they had kissed a thousand times before. Merlin tastes of wine, heady and almost sweet. Arthur knows with a strange certainty that he will never, ever tire of kissing him.

 Arthur grips Merlin’s hips, pulling his groin flush with his own. The feeling of Merlin’s cock rubbing against his through the fabric of their jeans rips a groan from his throat, and in one swift motion he surges forward, pushing Merlin back against the opposite wall of the narrow entryway. He breaks away from Merlin’s lips to lay soft, sucking kisses along his jawline and down to the hollow of his throat. Merlin’s hands drift down Arthur’s chest to his waist, pausing briefly before sliding up under his shirt. His fingers stroke Arthur’s abdomen, splaying against the hard muscle briefly before moving up to ruffle and smooth his chest hair in circular motions that bring his fingertips teasingly close to Arthur’s nipples without actually touching them. Arthur’s hips jerk, and he angles one thigh between Merlin’s before taking his mouth again, kissing him deeply. Merlin’s thumbs finally touch Arthur’s nipples, and he moves them firmly up and down over the hard nubs. The sensation goes straight to his cock, and Arthur tears his mouth away from Merlin’s with a gasp.

 “Like that, do you?” Merlin breathes in Arthur’s ear, bringing thumb and forefinger together on each of his nipples in a delicious pinch. Merlin’s cock is hard against his thigh, and Arthur’s is pressing almost painfully against the taut denim. His hips jerk as Merlin pinches his nipples again, and it would be easy, so easy to grind against him until his vision whites out and he spills in his pants like a teenager. It would be easy, but it’s not what Arthur wants.

 “Bed?” He asks, resting his forehead on Merlin’s shoulder and willing himself back from the brink.

 “Oh god, yes.” Merlin sounds as wrecked as Arthur feels, and then they are stumbling through Arthur’s flat attempting to shed their clothes without letting go of one another.

 Merlin falls back onto the bed, tugging Arthur with him, and Arthur revels in the sensation of Merlin’s lean body beneath his own. He kisses his way down Merlin’s chest, tonguing his navel and nuzzling the nest of dark curls, breathing in the musky scent. His tongue traces the thick vein on the underside of Merlin’s cock and he brushes his lips against the leaking tip. His lips close around the crown, savoring the taste of precome. Arthur wraps one hand around the base of Merlin’s cock and slides his mouth down, taking in as much as he can. Merlin’s fingers tangle in his hair, and the gentle tugging serves as a counterpoint to the dull ache in his jaw as his head bobs up and down. Merlin is gasping and straining, clearly struggling to stay flat against the bed, and Arthur grips his hip with his free hand, urging him to move. Merlin fucks up into his mouth in short jerks, obviously straining to control his movement and avoid gagging Arthur. Abruptly he tenses, and his fingers tighten in Arthur’s hair a second before he groans, “…gonna come…”

 Arthur releases Merlin’s hip and pulls off his cock; he pumps his hand along the hard, slick length of it until Merlin’s back bows and hot, thick come spurts out. He looks up, and Merlin is gazing down at him, eyes dark with lust. Arthur shifts up until he is lying flush with Merlin and his cock is sliding against Merlin’s belly, his own precome dripping on the pale skin. Merlin cups the nape of his neck and pulls him down for a kiss, stroking his free hand down Arthur’s flank and pulling his hips forward so that his cock is trapped between them. He breaks the kiss and lifts his head, his cheek sliding along Arthur’s until his lips are barely touching Arthur’s ear.

 “That was amazing,” he murmurs in a voice that is pure sex. “You’re amazing…want you so badly…you don’t even know. Fuck me...I want you to fuck me…”

 Arthur’s hips buck against Merlin’s stomach, and somehow, through an exercise of willpower that will amaze him when he can think coherently, he stops himself from coming from the sound of those words alone.

 He trembles slightly, and buries his face in Merlin’s neck for a moment, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I won’t last…”

 “Don’t care…I want…I need you inside me…”

 Arthur kisses Merlin again, imagining that he is pouring all his need, all his yearning into him using their joined mouths as a conduit. Merlin kisses him back fervently, deeply, and Arthur has no doubt his desire for Merlin is reciprocated.

 Arthur pulls away long enough to reach into the nightstand for lube and condoms, and settles alongside Merlin again. Merlin pulls his legs up, tracing a spit-slicked finger around his hole as Arthur lubes his own finger and slides the tip of it against the pucker, brushing against Merlin’s finger in the process. Merlin pulls his hand back, and Arthur pushes his finger inside, stroking in and out slowly before adding a second finger and scissoring them gently. Merlin is grinding down on his hand, pupils blown and an absolutely wrecked expression on his face, and he grips Arthur’s shoulder and tugs, wordlessly urging him up. As badly as Arthur wants to be buried inside Merlin right now, he wants it to be good for him, so good – and he holds off, sliding a third finger inside and stretching gently. Merlin squirms, and finally grips Arthur’s wrist and stops him with a groan. “No more…I’m ready.”

 Arthur withdraws his hand and wipes it on the sheet, then grabs a condom and rips the foil packet open quickly. He rolls it on and applies lube before settling between Merlin’s spread thighs and lining his cock up with his slick, loosened hole. Merlin’s skin is flushed with arousal; his eyes half-closed and plush lips slightly parted. Arthur presses in slowly, both for Merlin’s comfort and to keep himself from coming before he’s even fully seated inside. He stays there, hilt deep in Merlin’s arse, breathing deeply as he tries to control himself. Merlin grabs his hip and tugs, saying, “Arthur…move…dammit!”

 Arthur’s control breaks, and he pulls out and slides back in, then out, and back in again. Merlin’s body seems to pull him in every thrust, and he increases the pace and shifts his angle until he’s reached a steady rhythm and is hitting Merlin’s prostate with every stroke.

 Merlin is gasping softly, a sort of breathy “ah…ah…ah…” sound, and Arthur’s balls are tightening; orgasm is imminent and he leans forward to capture Merlin’s mouth again as he finally lets go, pleasure roaring through his body like a tidal wave.

 He collapses on Merlin, burying his face in his neck and trembling softly as tears escape from the corners of his eyes. If Merlin notices, he doesn’t say anything; he just presses his lips to Arthur’s temple and holds him close, murmuring softly into his ear.

 

***

 

Arthur finds himself lying on his back when he wakes, with an arm around Merlin, whose face is tucked into his neck with one arm slung over Arthur's waist. The clock on the nightstand reads 8:30, and Arthur can't remember the last time he slept this late.

 He shifts slightly, testing to see if his movement will wake Merlin, but he slumbers on, apparently a deep sleeper. Satisfied, Arthur gently extricates himself and pulls on a pair of pants before going into the kitchen to scrounge around for something to eat. He wishes he could make Merlin a proper breakfast, but he doesn't keep much in the way of groceries around. He considers running down to Tesco to buy what he needs to make a fry-up, but then he finds some bread that is fortunately still fresh enough to eat and settles on making toast.

 The tea is steeping and he is spreading butter on the toast when Merlin emerges from the bedroom. He wanders into the living room, squinting against the bright light and looking rather adorably rumpled, and Arthur feels that warmth in his chest again.  He knows, without a sliver of doubt, that this is what he wants for his life.

 Merlin passes by Arthur's console table, and picks up the CD case lying there. The CD case Arthur never bothered to move, because up until recently he had listened the "Guided Meditation for Sleep" on his iPhone.

 "Hey, where did you get this?" Merlin asks, brandishing the CD case and looking at him curiously.

 "Oh, Morgana gave that to me when I was having some trouble sleeping awhile back."

 "Did you use it?" Merlin grins wryly. "I'm not sure how I fell into it, but I did a little bit of voice work to help pay for uni. It's weird to see that you have one of the ones I did."

 "Yeah, weird." Arthur echoes awkwardly. He clears his throat. "Actually, I did use it. And I sort of recognized your voice when we met at the pub last week."

 Merlin grins widely at that. "You recognized my voice, did you?" He walks into the kitchen and slides one arm around Arthur's waist, looking at him with deceptively innocent eyes and a wicked smile. "Are you a fan, then?"

 Arthur pulls him into a kiss, and Merlin yields with a sigh, his body conforming to Arthur's so perfectly it is as though they were made for one another.

 "I guess you could say that I am," Arthur replies.

 And really, he thinks, there's no need to tell Merlin just _how much_ of a fan, right?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


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